Sometimes I still wonder what I did to deserve being estranged from my family. I truly wish my mom, brother, and especially my little sister could write down all the reasons why I was never allowed back into the family. Masochistic, isn’t it? Me wanting them to tell me exactly what was wrong with me at sixteen, like maybe that would fix all the problems I’ve had up to the ripe age of twenty-six.
But seriously, I really do wonder what I did or said that was so bad. Not in a sad way, but in a way where I just want to understand. I don’t remember being that terrible of a kid, but that’s just my perspective. I don’t know theirs, and I think maybe if I did, I would be able to make sense of something I haven’t had clarity on for the last ten years. Maybe if I knew how I made them feel during our childhood, I’d understand why we haven’t spoken in so long. I know it sounds ridiculous, but sometimes my brain just wanders there.
All I can remember is having a bad attitude—a really bad one, according to my mother. I remember getting my phone smashed to bits because I wouldn’t tell her the passcode. I didn’t tell her because I didn’t want her to read the texts to my friend about how I didn’t want to be alive anymore. I was so angry watching her smash my phone that I bulldozed her into a door… and then my brother chased me down and beat me. That’s the worst thing I can remember between me and my mother. I mean, I remember she chased me with a hairbrush several times and even broke one hitting me once, but honestly, those are the only moments that felt like the worst of the worst. The rest were mostly yelling—me saying my mother was unfair and feeling like I never got to do anything. I guess I was a brat.
I remember being mean to my sister with my words, but I can’t remember what I said or why I said it. I remember us getting into petty fights—same with my brother. But I don’t remember being terrible. Maybe it wasn’t me being directly terrible to them, but more how my relationship with my mother affected them… I don’t know. I can’t speak for them, but I wish they would speak to me and tell me.
I think the most interesting part of all of this is the fact that no matter if you have the same mom and dad, you never grow up with the same parents. They treat you differently, and your perspectives are all different.
My mom left me with my father—the same man who made her depressed and made her want to end her life. The man she knew used to beat us until we couldn’t walk, lock us in closets because he didn’t want to deal with us, and send us to bed without dinner if we cried too much. She sent me to him knowing the kind of man he was. Some nights he wouldn’t even let me come home because he was mad at me, and I had to figure out where to sleep and wait until he would let me back in. I don’t know what I ever did to deserve that. I wish I did, because maybe then I wouldn’t be sitting at my kitchen table crying, wondering why.
I know I didn’t deserve it. I just wonder what made you think I did.